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THE 



POWER OF BEAUTY. 


BY THE 

REY. J. T. HEADLEY. 


* n. 


V 


.v^Y °* 


; a. 


•f QP>*1 

lOQi 


' y of V/ as h\n r ^°^ 


/° NEW YORK: V 

JOHN S. TAYLOR, 

143 NASSAU STREET. 


MONTREAL: 
ROBERT W. LAY. 
1850. 




ck 3 

jy ^ 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, 
BY JOHN S. TAYLOR, 

in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the South¬ 
ern District of New-York. 



< 

CONTENTS. 

ESTHER,. 5 

RUTH,.31 

A L FIERI,.51 

BEAUTY,.99 














PUBLISHER’S PREFACE. 


In prosecuting the plan we formed in the begin¬ 
ning, of furnishing the Literary Public of America 
with economical and elegant editions of all the 
writings of Mr. Headley, worthy of a place in such 
a collection, we have thus far issued no volume 
which has stronger claims on the community than 
this—no one which will probably enjoy more gen¬ 
eral and permanent fame. 

There is a certain laudable curiosity among all 
persons, to see how far an author who has won 
eminence in one field, will sustain himself when he 
enters another ; particularly in the case of Mr. 
Headley. After shedding the brilliant light of his 
genius over the great battle-fields of Europe, and 
producing sketches of the Illustrious Marshals of 
Napoleon, which cannot be rivaled in our Litcra- 


11 


publisher’s preface. 


ture, it was a somewhat hazardous experiment, it 
must he confessed, to roll off the cloud ol battle for 
the sunshine of Beauty and Love. Our readers 
who remember with what vividness and consum¬ 
mate ability Mr. Headley has made the plume of 
Murat dance in the smoke of battle, will be delight¬ 
ed to see how easily and gracefully his magical pen 
glides from scenes of carnage to the couch of beauty 
and luxuriousness. Feeling that in “ Esther or 
the Power of Beauty,” and “Ruth,” and Naomi, 
Mr. Headley has produced the most glowing and 
impassioned sketches of the enchanting influence 
of female loveliness, anywhere to be found, we 
have printed them in a style of elegance worthy 
of the subject. We have spared no labor or ex¬ 
pense in embellishing these most superb sketches 
in the most elegant style—and well are they wor¬ 
thy of the outlay, for they will hereafter be pointed 
to as faultless portraits in their way. It would be 
in vain in the matchless poems of Byron or Moore } 
in which they have portrayed so many and such 
enchanting beings, to find one drawn in lines of more 
bewitching beauty, and even the myriad-minded 
Dumas has probably surrounded no heroine of his 


publisher’s preface. 


• • • 
111 

thousand romances with the charm of such melting 
voluptuousness as Mr. Headley has here drawn 
some of the beautiful Women of the Bible. 

We need hardly say that none of our readers can 
possibly take any exceptions to these sketches on 
account of their moral tone. In the first place Es¬ 
ther and Ruth are Bible subjects, and they are 
from the pen of the Rev. Joel Tyler Headley, who 
has long been one of the brightest ornaments in 
the church, distinguished alike for the great purity 
of his private character and for his warm zeal in 
the cause of religion; surely nothing could come 
from his pen that was not eminently calculated to 
make all men and women wiser and better. 

Besides, we should state that the sketches Esther 
and Ruth originally appeared in the “ New York 
Observer,” which has long been known as the 
organ of Mr. Headley’s church, and probably the 
purest, most high toned Evangelical and Religious 
Journal in the world. It always was perfectly free 
from everything objectionable, but it has of late 
maintained, if possible, a still higher tone of moral 
purity. This can be accounted for in part, no 
doubt, by attributing it to the influence of a certain 


IV 


publisher’s preface. 


well-known Christian gentleman, no less celebrated 
for the coruscations of his genius and great literary 
acumen, than for the ardor of his personal piety, 
and who is said to have the paper virtually under 
his sole control. 

It is a great comfort to the friends of Religion, 
and above all to the peculiar advocates of the 
Presbyterian church, that it numbers such men in 
its communion, and that they have so perfectly 
pure and unobjectionable an organ as the New 
York Observer. Long may they all live to honor 
the cause of virtue and piety, which they seem to 
cherish so near their hearts. 

With these few words of introduction, we send 
the Rev. Mr. Pleadley’s “ Love Paintings ” out to 
the world, trusting that they will be read with un¬ 
mingled delight and profit. 























♦ * 















































4 































* 








C Sts.al 


•' .B atm is ter. 


IE S IT tH] E D& 










THE POWER OF BEAUTY; 

OR. 

QUEEN ESTHER. 

/ * 


It is a little singular that the 
words God or Providence are not 
mentioned in the whole book of Es¬ 
ther. The writer seems studiously to 
have avoided any reference to them, 
as if he did not wish to recognize 
the interposition of Heaven in any of 
the events that transpired; while 
his narrative is evidently designed to 
teach nothing else. The hand of 

O 





6 


ESTHER. 


Providence is everywhere seen man- 
aofinof the whole scheme. 

o o 

Ahasuerus, king 1 over a hundred 
and twenty-seven provinces, and pros¬ 
perous to the extent of his vast am¬ 
bition, made a grand exhibition of 
his wealth to his subjects, which 

lasted six months. At the end of 
this time, he gave a feast to con¬ 
tinue a week. The court of the gar¬ 
den of his palace was paved with 
the choicest marbles, black, red, blue, 
and white. From this costly floor, 

pillars of polished marble arose, sup¬ 
porting a gorgeous canopy; while 

all around were the richest hangings, 
upheld by cords and rings of silver. 


ESTHER. 


7 


Beneath this magnificent drapery, 

were ^spread couches, covered only 

% 

with gold and silver cloths. In the 
midst the table was laid—groaning’ 
under a weight of gold—every gob¬ 
let being of solid gold, and each 
differing from the other in its form 
and elaborate workmanship. The 
queen had a similar feast in her 
apartments for the women, and all 
was mirth and festivity. At the 
end of the week, however, when 
the dissipation had reached its 
height, the king being merry and 
uxorious from his long and deep 
libations, sent for his wife to come 
and show herself to his guests, 



8 


ESTHER. 


that he might praise her beauty. 
Knowing the state her husband was 
in, and also the shocks her delicacy 
would receive in the interview, she 
refused to go. The king was just 
drunk enough to be dignified, and 
hence regarded this refusal as a 
mortal offence. He asked the wise 
men about him, what should be 
done in such an extraordinary case. 
Much wiser than if they had been 
sober, they one after another ex¬ 
pressed proper horror at the mon¬ 
strous act, and stroking their long 
beards and looking grave and sage, 
told him that it was a matter that 
concerned not only him, but hus- 


ESTHER. 


9 


bands the world over; for if such a 

thing* should be passed by in si- 

% 

lence, all authority over their wives 
would end—in short, it would be a 
sort of moral earthquake. Poor 
Vashti had not the least idea she 
was creating* such a revolution in 
human affairs: however, she was 
unqueened at once, and the catas¬ 
trophe of husbands being* ruled by 
their wives, postponed if not avert¬ 
ed. 

When the king*, however, came out 
of his dissipation, he beg*an to pine 
for his beautiful wife. His favorites 
no sooner perceived this, than they 
set on foot a plan to, wean him en- 



10 


ESTHER. 


tirely from her. They knew her 
restoration would be the signal of 
their disgrace and banishment—so 
all the beautiful virgins of that vast 
realm were brought before him, from 
whom, after a trial which does as 
much honor to the morals, as to the 
wisdom of those sages, he was to 
select one as a wife. Among these 
was Hadassah, a Hebrew maiden 
whose parents were dead, and who 
had been reared by her cousin Mor- 
decai, one of the prisoners carried 
away, when the king of Babylon 
took and sacked Jerusalem. 

The character of Esther is here 
exhibited at the outset; for when 



ESTHER. 


11 


she went into the presence of the 

king, for his inspection, instead of 

% 

asking- for gifts as allowed by him, 
and as the others did, she took only 
what the chamberlain gave her. 

Of exquisite form and faultless 
features, her rare beauty at once 
captivated the king, and he made 
her his wife. Following the advice 
of her cousin, she had never told 
him her lineage, and the enthralled 
monarch forgot his former queen. 
Mordecai always reminds one of 

Hamlet. Of a noble heart, grand 
intellect, and unwavering integrity, 

there was nevertheless an air of 
severity about him—a haughty, un- 



12 


ESTHER. 


bending- spirit; which with his high 
sense of honor, and scorn of mean¬ 
ness, would prompt him to lead 
an isolated life. I have sometimes 
thought that even he had not been 
able to resist the fascinations of his 
young and beautiful cousin, and that 
the effort to conceal his feelings had 
given a greater severity to his man¬ 
ner than he naturally possessed. Too 
noble, however, to sacrifice such a 
beautiful being by uniting her fate 
with his own, when a throne was 
offered her; or perceiving that the 
lovely and gentle being he had seen 
ripen into faultless womanhood, could 
never return his love—indeed could 


ESTHER. 


13 


cherish no feeling’ but that of a fond 
daughter, he crushed by his strong 
will his fruitless passion. In no other 
way can I account for the life he 
led, lingering forever around the 
palace gates, where now and then 
he might get a glimpse of her who 
had been the light of his soul, the 
one bright bird which had cheered 
his exile’s home. That home he 
wished no longer to see, and day 
after day he took his old station at 
the gates of Shushan, and looked 
upon the- magnificent walls that di¬ 
vided him from all that had made 
life desirable. It seems, also, as if 

some latent fear that Haman, the 

2 


14 


ESTHER. 


favorite of the king—younger than 
his master and of vast ambition— 
might attempt to exert too great an 
influence over his cousin, must have 
prompted him to treat the latter 
with disrespect, and refuse him that 
homage which was his due. No rea¬ 
son is given for the hostility he man¬ 
ifested, and which he must have • 
known would end in his own de¬ 
struction. Whenever Haman with 
his retinue came from the palace, all 
paid him the reverence due to the 
king’s favorite, but Mordecai, who 
sat like a statue, not even turning 
his head to notice him. He acted 
like one tired of life, and at length 



ESTHER. 


15 


succeeded in arousing’ the deadly hos¬ 
tility of the haug'hty minister. The 
latter, however, scorning to be re¬ 
venged on one man, and he a per¬ 
son of low birth, persuaded the king 
to decree the slaughter of all the 
Jews in his realm. The news fell 
like a thunderbolt on Mordecai. Sul¬ 
len, proud, and indifferent to his own 
fate, he had defied his enemy to do 
his worst; but such a savage ven¬ 
geance had never entered his mind. 
It was too late, however, to regret 
his behavior. Right or wrong, he 
had been the cause of the bloody 
sentence, and he roused himself to 
avert the awful catastrophe. With 


10 


ESTHER. 


rent garments, and sackcloth on his 
head, he travelled the city with a 
loud and bitter cry, and his voice 
rang even over the walls of the pal¬ 
ace, in tones that startled its slum¬ 
bering inmates. It was told to Es¬ 
ther, and she ordered garments to be 
given him; but he refused to receive 
them, and sent back a copy of the 
king’s decree, respecting the massa¬ 
cre of the Jews, and bade her go 
in, and supplicate him to remit the 
sentence. She replied that it was 
certain death to enter the king’s pres¬ 
ence unbidden, unless he chose to 

hold out his sceptre; and that for a 

/ 

whole month he had not requested 


ESTHER. 


17 


to see her. Her stem cousin, how¬ 
ever, unmoved by the danger to her¬ 
self, and thinking only of his people, 
replied haughtily that she might do 
as she chose—if she preferred to ' 
save herself, delivery would come 
to the Jews from some other quar¬ 
ter, but she should die. 

From this moment the character of 
Esther unfolds itself. It was only a 
passing weakness that prompted her 
to put in a word for her own life, 
and she at once arose to the dig¬ 
nity of a martyr. The blood of the 
proud and heroic Mordecai flowed 
in her veins, and she said, “ Go, tell 

my cousin to assemble all the Jews 

2 * 



18 


ESTHER. 


in Shushan, and fast three days and 
three nights, neither eating nor drink¬ 
ing ; I and my maidens will do the 
same, and on the third day I will 
go before the king, and if I perish , 
I perish, ” Noble and brave heart! 
death—a violent death is terrible, 
' but thou art equal to it! 

There, in that magnificent apart¬ 
ment, filled with perfume—and where 
the softened light, stealing through 
the gorgeous windows by day, and 
shed from golden lamps by night on 
marble columns and golden-covered 
couches, makes a scene of enchant¬ 
ment—behold Esther, with her roy¬ 
al apparel thrown aside, kneeling on 




ESTHER. 


19 


the tesselated floor. There she has 
been two days and nights, neither 
eating nor drinking, while hunger, 
and thirst, and mental agony, have 
made fearful inroads on her beauty. 
Her cheeks are sunken and hag- 
gard, her large and lustrous eyes 
dim with weeping, and her lips 
parched and dry, yet ever moving 
in inward prayer. Mental and phys¬ 
ical suffering have crushed her young 
heart within her, and now the hour 
of her destiny is approaching. Ah ! 
who can tell the desperate effort it 
required to prepare for that terrible 
interview? Never before did it be¬ 
come her to look so fascinating as 


20 


ESTHER. 


then ; and removing* with tremulous 
anxiety the traces of her suffering*, 
she decked herself in the most be¬ 
coming apparel she could select. 
Her long black tresses were never 
before so carefully braided over her 
polished forehead, and never before 
did she put forth such an effort to 
enhance every charm, and make her 
beauty irresistible to the king. At 
length fully arrayed, and looking* 
more like a goddess dropped from 
the clouds, than a being of clay, 
she stole tremblingly towards the 
king’s chamber. Stopping a moment 
at the threshold to swallow down 
the choking sensation that almost 


ESTHER. 


21 


suffocated her, and to gather her fail¬ 
ing strength, she passed slowly into 
the room, while her maidens stood 
breathless without, listening, and 
waiting with the intensest anxiety 
the issue. Hearing a slight rustling, 
the king, with a sudden frown, look¬ 
ed up to see who was so sick of 
life as to dare to come unbidden in 
his presence, and lo! Esther stood 
speechless before him. Her long' 
fastings and watchings had taken 
the color from her cheeks, but had 
given a greater transparency in its 
place, and as she stood, half shrink¬ 
ing, with the shadow of profound 
melancholy on her pallid, but inde- 



22 


ESTHER. 


scribably beautiful countenance—her 
pencilled brow slightly contracted in 
'the intensity of her excitement—her 
long lashes dripping in tears, and her 
lips trembling with agitation; she 
was—though silent—in herself an 
appeal that a heart of stone could 
not resist. The monarch gazed long 
and silently on her, as she stood 
waiting her doom. Shall _she die? 
No; the golden sceptre slowly rises 
and points to her. The beautiful in¬ 
truder is welcome, and sinks like a 
snow-wreath at his feet. Never be¬ 
fore did the monarch gaze on such 
transcendent loveliness; and spell¬ 
bound and conquered by it, he said 


ESTHER. 


23 


in a gentle voice: “What wilt thou, 
queen Esther ? What is thy re¬ 
quest ?—it shall be granted thee, 
even to the half of my kingdom!” 

Woman-like, she did not wish to 
risk the influence she had thus sud¬ 
denly gained, by asking the destruc¬ 
tion of his favorite, and the reversion 
of his unalterable decree, and so she 
prayed only that he and Hainan 
might banquet with her the next 
day. She had thrown her fetters 
over him, and was determined to 
fascinate him still more deeply be¬ 
fore she ventured on so bold a move¬ 
ment. At the banquet he again ask¬ 
ed her what she desired, for he well 



24 


ESTHER. 


knew it was no ordinary matter that 
had induced her to peril her life by 
entering, unbidden, his presence. 

She invited him to a second feast, 
and at that to a third. But the night 
previous to the last, the king could 
not sleep, and after tossing awhile 
on his troubled couch, he called for 
the record of the court, and there 
found that Mordecai had a short 
time before informed him, through 
the queen, of an attempt to assassi¬ 
nate him, and no reward been be¬ 
stowed. The next day, therefore, he 
made Haman perform the humilia¬ 
ting office of leading his enemy in 
triumph through the streets, pro- 


ESTHER. 


25 


claiming* before him, “ This is the 
man whom the king* delighteth to 
honor.” As he passed by the gal¬ 
lows he had the day before erected 
for that very man, a shudder crept 
through his frame, and the first omen 
of coming evil cast its shadow on 
his spirit. 

The way was now clear to Es¬ 
ther, and so the next day, at the 
banquet, as the king repeated his 
former offer, she, reclining on the 
couch, her chiselled form and ravish¬ 
ing beauty inflaming the ardent 
monarch with love and desire, said, 
in pleading accents, u I ask, O king, 

for my life , and that of my people. 

3 


26 


ESTHER. 


If we bad all been sold as bondmen 
and bondwomen, I had held my 
tongue, great as the evil would have 
been to thee.” The king started, 
as if stung by an adder, and with 
a brow dark as wrath, and a voice 
that sent Hainan to his feet, ex¬ 
claimed : “ Thy life! my queen ? 

Who is lie? where is he that dare 
even think such a thought in his 
heart? He who strikes, at thy life, 
radiant creature, plants his presump¬ 
tuous blow in his monarch’s bosom. 7 ’ 
“ That man ,” said the lovely pleader, 
u is •the wicked Hainan .” Darting 
one look of vengeance on the petri¬ 
fied favorite, he strode forth into the 


ESTHER. 


27 


garden to control his boiling pas¬ 
sions. Haman saw at once that his 
only hope now was, in moving the 
sympathies of the queen in his be¬ 
half; and approaching her, he began 
to plead most piteously for his life. 
In his agony he fell on the couch 
where she lay, and while in this 
position, the king returned. “ What!” 
he exclaimed, “ will he violate the 
queen here in my own palace!'” 
Nothing more was said: no order 
was given. The look and voice of 
terrible wrath in which this was 
said were sufficient. The attendants 
simply spread a cloth over Haman’s 
face, and not a word was spoken. 


28 


ESTHER. 


Those who came in, when they saw 
the covered countenance, knew the 
import. It was the sentence of 
death. The vaulting* favorite him¬ 
self dare not remove it—he must 
die, and the quicker the agony is 
over, the better. In a few hours he 
was swinging* on the gallows he 
had erected for Mordecai. 

After this, the queen’s power was 
supreme—everything she asked was 
granted. To please her, he let his 
palace flow in the blood of five 
hundred of his subjects, whom the 
Jews slew in self-defence. For her 
he hung Hainan’s ten sons on the 
gallows where the father had suf- 




ESTHER. 


29 


fered before them. For her he made 
Mordecai prime minister, and lavish¬ 
ed boundless favors on the hitherto 
oppressed Hebrews. And right 
worthy was she of all he did for 
her. Lovely in character as she 
was in person, her sudden elevation 
did not make her vain, nor her 
power haughty. The same gentle, 
pure, and noble creature when 
queen, as when living in the lowly 
habitation of her cousin—generous, 
disinterested, and ready to die for 
others, she is one of the loveliest 
characters furnished in the annals 
of history. 


3* 







D^*[y nr jh □ 








II UTH. 


There seems no reason why the 
Book of Ruth should have been 
written, except to show the lineage 
of David. It is simply a sweet 
pastoral, a truthful tale, embodying 
the finest sentiments, and placing 
before us ? in attractive colors, a 
young, lovely, and beautiful woman. 

w •£ 

It is a chapter in domestic life, told 
with charming simplicity, and awak¬ 
ening in the reader feelings of the 



32 


RUTH. 


purest and noblest kind. To one 
who reads the Bible in course, it 
comes like a sudden yet sweet sur¬ 
prise. The sterner feelings of his 
nature have been roused by the tur¬ 
bulent scenes of the Book of Judges. 
Fierce battles, private murders, and 
terrific slaughters, have followed 
each other in rapid succession. One 
of the last scenes that he dwelt up¬ 
on was the violent death of an un- 
chaste woman, whose dismembered 
bodv was sent in bleeding fragments 

y o o 

throughout the land, like the fiery 
cross of Scotland, to call men to 
arms, followed by the slaughter of 
a hundred thousand men, whose 


RUTH. 33 

corpses strewed the fields—the 
whole closed by the forcible seizure 
of women for wives, like the rape 
of the Sabines. 

From such a succession of hor¬ 
rors, the reader comes upon the 
simple and gentle story of Ruth, 
like one who emerges from an Al¬ 
pine gorge, black with thunder¬ 
clouds, and filled with the roar of 
mad torrents, upon a little green 
pasturage, slumbering in the em¬ 
brace of the hills, along whose quiet 
surface herds lazily recline or slow¬ 
ly wander, while the tinkling of 
bells mingling with the murmur of 
the streamlet, charms the soul into 


34 


RUTH. 


pleasure, seeming, from the very 
contrast, doubly sweet. 

No novelist has ever been able, 
with his utmost efforts, to paint so 
lovely, so perfect a character as 
this simple story presents. From 
first to last, Ruth appears before us 
endowed with every virtue and 
charm that render a woman attrac¬ 
tive. Naomi’s husband was a man 
of wealth, and left Bethlehem to 
escape the famine that was wasting 
the land. In Moab he found plenty; 
and there, with his wife and two 
sons, who married Ruth and Orpah, 
lived awhile and died. In the 
course of ten years, the two sons 


RUTH. 


35 


died also, and then Naomi, broken¬ 
hearted, desolate, and poor, resolved 

\ 

to return and die in her native land. 
How touching her last interview 
with her daughters-in-law, when 
she bade them farewell, and prayed 
that, as they had been kind to her 
and her dead sons, so might the 
Lord be kind to them. Surprised 
that they refused to leave her, she 
reasoned with them, saying that she 
was a widow and childless, and to 
go with her was to seek poverty 
and exile in a strange land. She 
could offer them no home, and per¬ 
haps the Jewish young men would 
scorn their foreign birth, and when 


36 


RUTH. 


she died, none would be left to care 
for them or protect them. There 
they had parents, brothers, and 
friends, who loved them and would 
protect them. On the one hand 
were rank in society and comfort, 
on the other disgrace and poverty. 
Orpah felt the force of this language, 
and turned back; but Ruth, still 
clinging to her, Naomi declared that 
it was the act of folly and madness 
to follow the fortunes of one for 
whom no bright future was in store, 
no hope this side the grave. She* 
sought only to see the place of her 
childhood once more, and then lie 
down where the palm-trees of her 


RUTH. 


37 




native land might cast their shadows 
over her place of rest. “ Go back,” 
said she, “ with thy sister-in-law.” 
She might as well have spoken to 
the rock—that gentle being by her 
side, all shrinking timidity and mo¬ 
desty, whose tender feelings the 
slightest breath could agitate, was 
immovable in her affections. Her 
eye would sink abashed before the 
bold look of impertinence, but with 
her bosom pressed on one she loved, 
she could look on death in its grim¬ 
mest forms unappalled. Fragile as 
the bending willow, she seemed, 
but in her true love, firm as the 

rooted oak. The hand of violence 

4 



38 


RUTH. 


might crush, but never loosen her 
gentle clasp. With those white 
arms around her mother’s neck, and 
her breast heaving convulsively, she 
sobbed forth, “ Entreat me not to 
leave thee , for where thou goest I 
will go, and where thou lodgest I 
will lodge: thy people shall be my 
people, and thy God my God: 
where thou diest I will die, and 
there will I be buried —naught but 
death shall part us. :) 

Beautiful and brave heart! home, 
and friends, and wealth, nay, the 
gods she had been taught to wor¬ 
ship, were all forgotten in the 
warmth of her affection. Tearful 


RUTH. 


39 


yet firm, “ Entreat me not to leave 
thee,” she said : “ I care not for the 
future; I can bear the worst; and 
when thou art taken from me, I 
will linger around thy grave till I 
die, and then the stranger shall lay 
me by thy side!” What could Na¬ 
omi do but fold the beautiful being 
to her bosom and be silent, except 
as tears gave utterance to her emo¬ 
tions. Such a heart outweighs the 
treasures of the world, and such 
absorbing love, truth, and virtue, 
make all the accomplishments of 
life appear worthless in comparison. 

The two unprotected women took 
their journey on foot towards Beth- 


40 


RUTH. 


lehem. It was in the latter part of 
the summer, and as they wandered 
along* the roads, and through the 
fields of Palestine, Ruth, by a thou¬ 
sand winning ways, endeavored to 
cheer her mother. Naomi was 
leaving behind her the graves- of 
those she loved, and, penniless and 
desolate, returning to the place 
which she had left with a husband 
and two manly sons, and loaded 
with wealth, and hence a cloud 
hung upon her spirit. Yet in spite 
of her grief, she was often compell¬ 
ed to smile through her tears, and 
struggled to be cheerful, so as not 
to sadden the heart of the unselfish, 



RUTH. 


41 


innocent being* by her side. And 
at fervid noon, when they sat down 
beneath the shadowy palm to take 
their frugal meal, Ruth hastened to 
the neighboring rill for a cooling 
draught of water for her mother, 
and plucked the sweetest flowers to 
comfort her. 

Thus, day after day, they travel¬ 
ed on, until at length, one evening, 
just as the glorious sun of Asia 
was stooping to the western horizon, 
the towers of Bethlehem arose in 
sight. Suddenly a thousand tender 
associations, all that she had pos¬ 
sessed and all that she had lost, the 

past and the present, rushed over 

4 * 


J 


42 RUTH. 

her broken spirit, and she knelt and 
prayed, and wept. “ Call me not,” 
said she to the friends of her early 
days, who accosted her as she pass¬ 
ed through the gates, “ Call me not 
Naomi, or the pleasant, but Mara, 
bitter, for the Almighty hath dealt 
very bitterly with me.” 

Here again Ruth’s character shone 
forth in its loveliness. She was not 
one of those all sentiment and no 
principle; in whom devotion is mere 
romance, and self-sacrifice expends 
itself in poetic expressions. Though 
accustomed to wealth, and all the 
attention and respect of a lady of 
rank, she stooped to the sendee of a 


RUTH. 


43 


menial in order to support her moth¬ 
er. With common hireling’s she en¬ 
tered the fields as a gleaner, and 
without a murmur trained her deli¬ 
cate hands to the rough usage of a 
day-laborer. At night, her hard 
earnings were poured with a smile 
into the lap of her mother; and 
living wholly in her world of love, 
was unmindful of everything else. 
Boaz saw her amid the gleaners, 
and struck with her modest bearing 
and beauty, inquired who she was. 
On being told, he accosted her kind¬ 
ly, saying that he had heard of her 
virtues, her devotion to her mother, 
and her self-sacrifices, and invited 


44 


RUTH. 


her that day to dine at the common 
table. With her long dark locks 
falling in ringlets over her neck and 
shoulders, and her cheek crimson 
with her recent exertions and the 
excitement at finding herself oppo¬ 
site the rich landlord, in whose 
fields she had been gleaning, and 
who helped her at table as his 
guest, sat the impersonation of beau¬ 
ty and loveliness. That Boaz was 
fascinated by her charms, as well 
as by her character, was evident. 
He had watched her deportment, 
and saw how she shunned the com¬ 
panionship of the young men who 
sought her acquaintance, and of 



RUTH. 


45 


whose attentions her fellow-gleaners 
would have been proud. Nothing 
was too humble, if it ministered to 
her mother’s comfort; but beyond 
that, she condescended to nothing 
that was inconsistent with her birth. 
Whether abashed by his looks and 
embarrassed by his attentions, or 
from her native delicacy of’charac¬ 
ter, she arose from the table before 
the rest had finished, and retired. 
After she. had left, Boaz told the 
young men to let her take from the 
sheaves without rebuke, and then, 
as if suddenly recollecting how dif¬ 
ferent she was from the other glean¬ 
ers, and that every sheaf was as 



46 RUTH. 

safe where she trod as it would 
have been in his own granary, he 
fbade them drop handfulls by the 
way, which she, wondering at their 
carelessness, gathered up. At sun¬ 
set, she beat it out and carried it 
to her mother. Naomi, surprised at 
the quantity, questioned her closely 
as to where she had gleaned, and 
when Ruth told her the history of 
the day, the fond mother divined 
the whole. Her noble and lovely 
Ruth had touched the heart of one 
of her wealthy kinsmen, and she 
waited the issue. 

The long conversations they 
held together, and the struggles of 






RUTH. 


47 


the beautiful Moabitess, before she 
could bring herself to obey her 
mother and lie down at the feet of 
Boaz, thus claiming his protection 
and love, are not recorded. Custom 
made it proper and right, but we 
venture to say that Ruth never 
passed a more uncomfortable night 
than that. Her modesty and delica¬ 
cy must have kept her young heart 
in a state of agitation that almost 
mocked her self-control. The silent 
appeal, however, was felt by her 
rich relative, and he made her his 
wife. The devotion to her helpless 
mother—her self-humiliation in per¬ 
forming the office of a menial—the 


48 


RUTH. 


long summer of wasting toil—the 
many heart-aches caused by the 
rough shocks she was compelled, 
from her very position, to receive, 
at length met with their reward. 
Toiling through the sultry day, and 
beating out her hard earning at 
night, the only enjoyment she had 
known was the consciousness that 

M* .. w .. • i •• V- •* . 

by her exertions Naomi lived. It 
had been difficult, when weary and 
depressed, to give a cheerful tone 
to her voice, so as not to sadden 
her anxious mother-in-law; but still 
the latter saw that the task she 
had voluntarily assumed was too 
great, and therefore, at length, claim- 


RUTH. 


49 




ed from Boaz the obligations of a 
kinsman. Love, however, was 
stronger than those claims, and he 
took Ruth to his bosom with the 

strong affection of a generous and 

* 

noble man. She thus arose at once 
to the rank for which she was fit¬ 
ted ; and in time the beautiful glean¬ 
er of the fields of Bethlehem became 
the great-grandmother of the King 
of Israel. 



5 






. . . • ' . , 1 
!• ; ' J 

ALFIERI. 

- i; . J y 


Alfieri was a great lavonte with 
Lord Byron, and his tragedies were 
one of the four books the English 
bard always kept on his table. And 
their characters presented many 
points of likeness. Both were born 
to rank—both possessed wealth and 
personal accomplishments—yet both 
gloried chiefly in their mental en¬ 
dowments, and were prouder as po¬ 
ets than as noblemen. Both were 


v 







ALFJERI. 


fiery and impetuous creatures, scorn¬ 
ing* restraint, defying- their own age, 
trampling- on the critics that could 
not understand them, arid building 
for themselves a fame in spite of 
the prevailing taste and literature of 
their times. Both were restless be¬ 
ings, scouring the world to rid them¬ 
selves of the uncontrollable passions 
that raged within. Both were gloomy 
and excitable in youth, and even in 

boyhood exhibited those strange ex- 

* 

tremes of feeling which so often 
mastered them in maturer years. 
But though their characters present 
such strong points of resemblance, 
yet in many things they were to- 



ALFIERI. 


53 


tally unlike. And what is stranger 
still, the moment the resemblance 
ceases, Alfieri becomes more like an 
Englishman, and Byron more like an 
Italian. Alfieri was a more earnest, 
sincere man, than Byron. He had 
more strength of character, more 
firmness and steadiness of will, and 
- a bolder heart. His impetuosity was 
not passion, but the steady action of 
a most vehement nature. Byron’s 
paroxysms of anger were splendid 
poetry, terrible to look upon, but 
harmless as the dagger strokes of 

Macbeth on the boards of a theatre: 

* 

Alfieri’s were fearful facts, and his 

own life and the lives of others were 

5 * 


54 ALFIERI. 

forgotten in them. Byron was al¬ 
ways acting , and studied effect in 
everything he did; Alfieri never. The 
former was often reckless, some¬ 
times desperate, but not steadily 
brave ; the latter scarcely knew the 
sensation of fear. One wished to be 
thought brave, and endeavored to 
act as he imagined a hero should 
act; the other gave himself no 
thought on the subject, but when 
bravest, seemed to think he was do¬ 
ing nothing more than any man 
would do in similar circumstances. 
Byron wished to be thought proud 
and solitary as Lara, or Conrad, or 
Childe Harold; Alfieri, on the con- 


ALFIERI. 


55 


trary, was so proud and solitary, 
that he was too much occupied with 
his own feelings to care what oth¬ 
ers thought about it. Thus we find 
Byron making a whole tragedy a- 
bout the threats of a miserable laz- 
zaroni; writing to half a dozen dif¬ 
ferent friends of the same wonderful 
event, telling how he dressed, what 
arms he wore, and how he bore 
himself through it all. And yet, 
with all his vaporing and romance, 
it leaks out that he and some three 
or four others were barricaded for 
some time in their house by this mis¬ 
erable wretch, whose terrible threats 
ended after all in the pitiful syco- 


56 


ALFIERI. 


phancy of an Italian beggar. Alfieri, 
on the contrary, goes out alone in the 
night, and encounters an enraged hus- 
band, where the cftances are that he 
would be killed, and, with a sword- 
cut on his arm, returns to his friends, 
concealing both the reckless adven¬ 
ture and the pain under which he 
suffered. Byron is a misanthrope, 
who is ever telling us how weary 
he is of life, and yet very careful 
never to rid himself of his burthen.’ 
Alfieri scarcely speaks of his reck¬ 
lessness of life, except in explanation 
of his rash yet ineffectual attempts 
to take his own. Byron was gloomy 
because lie would analyze his own 


ALFIERI. 


57 


feeling’s—scornful because he was 
perfectly conscious that half the 
world were fools, and quite a pro¬ 
portion of the other half villains— 
and savagely defiant because he 
found himself in the midst of moral 
mysteries and contradictions he could 
not solve, and yet which held him 
fast and forced him irresistibly on. 
Alfieri was gloomy from the same 
cause, as deeply poetic natures al¬ 
ways must be; while his scorn arose 
from seeing one-half of mankind de¬ 
graded, sycophantic slaves, and the 
other half ignorant, feeble-minded ty¬ 
rants, and his defiance was towards 
man alone, not God. The former 



53 


ALFIERI. 


was penurious, and yet succeeded 
in making* half the world believe 
he was generous and prodigal to a 
fault; the other records with shame 
the only two instances in which av¬ 
arice had any control over him. 
Byron, when in Genoa, by unpar¬ 
donable importunity, prevailed on 
Lady Blessington to sell him a fa¬ 
vorite horse she had brought into 
Italy for her own use; and then refus¬ 
ed to give her the price (the least that 
could be named) she paid in Eng¬ 
land. A1 fieri, on the contrary, was 
constantly giving away his fine blood- 
horses, and often to those who were 
mere acquaintances, and scarcely 


AL FIERI. 


59 


thanked him for the gift. The former 
loaned money to the Greeks to aid 
them in their struggle for freedom, 
but took good care to have ample 
security for the debt; while the lat¬ 
ter gave away for ever his entire 
„ fortune, reserving to himself only a 
moderate income, that he might be 
personally free from all allegiance 
to the petty tyrant of Piedmont. 

Both were men of great mental 
power, and of volcanic passions, yet 
the Italian was a downright sincere 
man. He raged over the world, in¬ 
tent only on getting rid of himself, 
and thinking of scarcely anything 
else at the time. The Englishman 


60 


ALFIERI. 


did the same thing’, but resolved the 
while the world should know all 
about f it. One was hurried on— 


•f 

lashed by his fierce passions as with 
whip of scorpioh, and finding* no 
vent to his feeling’s save in stifled 

. i 

curses ; the other Went proudly into 
voluntary exile, yet making’ rhymes 
all the time, to let the men he de¬ 
spised know how much after all he 


thought about them. 

Such were these two strange be¬ 
ings, and such their points of resem¬ 
blance and difference; and in thus 
contrasting them together, we think 
we have given the best outline of 
Alfierfs character. He was so silent 



ALFIERI. 


61 


on his own affairs, that we should 
have known little of him but for his 
autobiography, found among his pa¬ 
pers after his death. It is seldom 
that a proud and passionate man 
leaves us a plain and simple history 
of himself, both mentally and out¬ 
wardly as he has done. To coolly 
and faithfully record his own follies 
and disgraces, and draw the knife 
across his own nerves, in laying bare 
his deepest mortifications when he 

was under no obligation to do it, 

* 

shows an amount of sincerity that 
should cover a multitude of sins. 
Had Byron thus exposed all the se¬ 
cret motives that prompted him; 


62 


A L FIERI. 


laid bare the miserable trickery to 
which he often resorted, and torn 
away the mask he always wore, 
many of his poems would draw 
tears of laughter rather than tears 
of sorrow. 

A1 fieri, according to his own ac¬ 
count, was born in Asti, Piedmont, 
on the 17th of January, 1749, “of 
noble, opulent, and respectable pa¬ 
rents.” Of feeble health and pas¬ 
sionate temperament, we find in his 
childhood the germ of his after me¬ 
lancholy and recklessness. When 
he was but seven years of age, lie 
attempted, in a fit of despondency, 
to destroy himself. At ten, we find 


ALFIER1. 


63 


him at the Academy in Turin, laying 
the foundations, as he termed it, of 
his “ no education.” Though not 
tortured with a club-foot like Lord 
Byron, he was afflicted with what 
seemed equally bad—dreadful erup¬ 
tions, which drew on him the most 
disgusting nicknames, and drove him 
into solitude, and fed with bitter 
food his already growing melancholy. 
At the age of thirteen, he was al¬ 
lowed to go to the opera, where his 
strangely sensitive and passionate 
nature felt, for the first time, the full 
power of music. The tones that 
ravished his ear and heart struck 
the finest chord of his being, which 


64 


AL FIERI. 


kept vibrating 1 on to the harmonies 
within, so that for weeks he wan¬ 
dered around buried in a' profound, 
yet pleasing- melancholy. In this 
dreamy state, the fancies of the poet 
crowded thick and fast on his vision, 
but finding- no language in which to 
speak out these new emotions that 

struggled for utterance, he sought 

O O 7 O 

relief in solitude. Though weak in 
" body, and violent in his feelings, yet 
so great was his candor and love 
of truth, that he escaped those quar¬ 
rels to which boys of his tempera¬ 
ment are liable. Yet even at the 

age of fifteen, he exhibited the in¬ 
domitable nature of his will, and his 


ALFIERI. 


65 


unconquerable resolution in bearing 
confinement for months, rather than 
yield to what he considered an un¬ 
just demand. At seventeen, he en¬ 
tered as ensign in the provincial ar¬ 
my, and soon after commenced his 
roving life, which lasted for nine 
years. Having by degrees got rid 
of his “ curator ” and everything but 
his faithful servant Elia, he passed 
through the south of Italy, staying 
at the different cities, according as 
the mood was on him. Having fi¬ 
nally determined to visit the more 

9 - 

northern countries of Europe, and 
finding the allowance furnished him 
not equal to the expenditures he an- 


(50 


ALFIERI. 


tieipatecl, he suddenly became ex¬ 
ceedingly parsimonious, denying him¬ 
self all places of public amusement, 
and even withholding from his ser¬ 
vant his just dues. Attempting to 
go from Rome to Venice by vettu- 
ra, instead of post, to save expense, 
he became so exasperated by the 
slow progress he made, that he for¬ 
got his avarice, paid his vetturino, 
took post, and became a free man 
again. Disgusted with Paris, he 
went over to London, to which he 
seemed to take a sudden fancv. 
But after awhile becoming tired of 
the heartless assemblies, and sup¬ 
pers, and banquets, he turned coach- 


ALFIERI. 


67 


man, driving’ his friend up to the 
doors of places of amusement, and 
showing his skill in bringing his 
carriage out safely from the jam that 
blocked up the entrance. All winter 
long he rode on horseback four or 
five hours in the morning, and sat 
on the coach-box two or three in 
the evening, without regard to wea¬ 
ther or temperature. From England 
he went to Holland, and at the 
Hague first fell seriously in love. 
True to his Italian origin, the object > 
of his passion was a married wo¬ 
man—the young bride of the Portu¬ 
guese ambassador to Holland, This 
affection was returned, and Alfieri 


G8 


ALFIERI. 


felt for the first time the full strength 
and power of his passions. Lapped 
in this first dream of love, he gave 
way to its intoxicating power, and 
was lifted for awhile into the third 
heaven of happiness. But the guilty 
dream had its waking, and he was 
forced to separate from his mistress 
for ever. She departed for Switzer¬ 
land to join her husband, and he 
gave himself up to despair. Feign¬ 
ing sickness, to escape the society 
of his friends, he sent for a surgeon, 
and requested to be bled. A vein 
was opened, and after a slight blood¬ 
letting, the arm was bandaged, and 
Alfieri left alone. Struck down by 


ALFIERI. 


G9 


the violence of his grief, he deter¬ 
mined to die, and tearing off his 
bandages, he re-opened the vein 
with the design of bleeding himself 
to death. A little longer, and it 
would have been over with him, 
but his faithful servant, Elia, who 
had seen the desperation of his mas¬ 
ter, kept a constant watch on him; 
and entered the room just in time 
to save him. Thus, at twenty years 
of age, he found his first great sor¬ 
row,- and burdened down with a 
gloom that shadowed all his future, 
he turned his steps homeward. He 
had scarcely arrived at Turin, before 
lie set about with the energy of an 


70 ALFIERI. 

%;i i 

unconquerable will to shake off his 

settled melancholy. But what could 

he do? Full of passion, sentiment, 

fire and intellect, he undoubtedly 

was, but ignorant as a peasant. In 

this crisis of his life and feelings, 

Plutarch’s Lives fell into his hand, 

and he fed his youthful imagination 

on Timoleon, Ceesar, Brutus, Pelopi- 

das, Cato and others, till fired with 
• . ■; ~1 

their high patriotism, or lofty achieve¬ 
ments, he would spring to his feet, 
and rave round his room like a mad- 
man, weeping and cursing the day 

*7 . „ » • ' l * • 

he was born in Piedmont. 

About this time his friends wish¬ 
ing him to become a diplomatist, 


ALFIERI. 


71 


prevailed on him to offer himself to 
a lady of wealth and influence, think¬ 
ing such an alliance would aid his 
prospects in obtaining a situation. 
Fortunately for him she rejected his 
proposal, and happy in his deliver¬ 
ance he started again on his travels, 
and visited Germany, Denmark, 
Sweden, Russia, Prussia, Holland 
and England. The restless feeling 
within him found not even momen¬ 
tary relief except in motion. It 
would not allow him to stop long 
in any place, but spurred him on 
from one new scene to another, and 
sometimes well nigh out of existence. 
A second love intrigue in London, 


72 


ALFIERI. 


the termination of which, we should 
think, might have cured him for ever 
of unlawful passion, kindled into a 
blaze all the exciting elements of 
his nature. We find him, from mere 
desperation, spurring his horse over 
a high fence, and though in the fall 
that followed the mad attempt, he 
dislocated his shoulder and broke 
his collar-bone, yet so raging were 
his passions that he was wholly un¬ 
conscious of the injury, and remount¬ 
ing his horse, forced him to the same 
leap again. This is Saturday even¬ 
ing; yet Sunday evening he is in 
his carriage driving to the villa of 
his mistress, nay walking two miles 


ALFIERI. 


73 


on foot with one arm in a sling and 
the other holding a drawn sword, 
in order to keep an appointment 
with her. But all the passions that 
had heretofore scourged him were 
calm emotions compared to his ma¬ 
niac fury and rage, on learning that 
this worthless woman, whom he 
loved with such absorbing passion, 
had given him but the second place 
in her favor—the first being reserv- 
ed for her husband’s groom. Guilty 
as his love had been, he had re¬ 
solved to marry her the moment 
she was free from her husband. 
But now all the fury of a fiend 
was roused in him. He raved and 

7 


0 


74 


ALFIERI. 


tore and screamed, a prey to the 
consciousness of wasted affection, 
mortified pride, merited degradation 
and a merciless conscience. 

Broken down in spirit, the fe¬ 
rocity of the man gave way for 
awhile to settled melancholy, and 
he commenced again his travels. 
Spain alone remained to be seen, 
and he turned his restless footsteps 
thither. But change of scenery 
could no longer charm him. He 
visited Madrid without becoming ac¬ 
quainted with a single being there 
but an artist and a watchmaker. 
Here occurred one of those out¬ 
breaks of passion which so often 



ALFIERI 


75 


proved nearly fatal to himself and 
others. His servant Elia, in dress- 

■■ ; i : i 1 ■ *■ 1 ~ <-i 

ing his hair, accidentally pulled one 


'it 


of his curls a little too strongly. Al- 

• ■ t i, ’ ■ : ■ i 

fieri sprung upon him like a tiger, 

. ; i i ’?i i r •’; : .'..i ! r : \ 

and inflicted a ghastly wound on 

; • ! ' r ^ • . ' ' I- . ...Li • : ' f ■ ' ■ • - 

his head. The enraged servant fell 

> ? • H ; h:i Li::il i.rii'L’i ' 1 • i.OLw pi 

on his master to kill him, and would 

, j •• "i. : 

have done it but for the interpo¬ 
sition of others. After the quarrel 

L: - '■ 'L..-i ■ 

was over, Alfieri told Elia he would 

■ ■■ • ■ i ■ L 

have been perfectly right to have 
killed him, and though the servant’s 

* • I *1 | • j|)| i 

anger was not wholly cleared up, 
went to bed, leaving the door open 

. r ; ■ . .. ; .. 1 M T. 

between their rooms. After he had 
been in bed some time he called 




?G 


ALFIERI. 


out to Elia, bidding* him come and 
kill him, for he was now defenceless, 
and he richly merited death. Such 
was this man, carrying a volcano in 
his bosom, yet, in his sane moments, 
just and true. 

At length, at twenty-three years 
of age, we find him again bending 
his footsteps homeward. Satiated 
with travelling, disgusted with every¬ 
thing, and more than all with him¬ 
self, he endeavored to compose him¬ 
self at Turin. A third love entan¬ 
glement, more, disgraceful and longer 
continued than the others, transform¬ 
ed him for awhile into a half brute. 
A severe illness brought on by his 







ALFIERI. 


77 


miserable life, dispelled this dream, 
and he awoke to more serious 
thought. Soon after, his mistress was 
also taken ill, and watching by her 
side, he commenced, without purpose 
or plan, and solely to occupy the 
silent hours, his first tragedy. It 
was a miserable thing enough, but 
it awoke a new passion within him, 
and he felt at once that he had 
found a full vent to the fires that 

were consuming him, viz.: verse. 

* 

He resolved on a new life, and the 
first thing was, to break the guilty 
chain that had degraded him. After 
days and weeks of torture and suf¬ 
fering, compelling his servant to tie 


78 AL FIERI. 

him down in his chair that his wa- 

(i 

vering* resolution might not carry 
him back to his low bondage, he fi¬ 
nally conquered. From this moment 
the history of Alfieri begins to bright¬ 
en. He celebrated his victory in a 
sonnet, the first he ever wrote. It 
is full of feeling, and is entitled 
“ Primo Sonetto.” It commences. 

. *•' Ho vintd aifin si non m’inganno, ho vinto 
Speuta e la flamma che vorace ardeva.” 

j H|:1 ■ i 

Which has been translated— 

Ca. if.,:: ,.4.1.:. •. Lu.ii . =. . f, .. /»' 

“ Fv^e conquered at last, if I do not deceive me, 

And spent is the flame which burned up my heart; 
I’ve broken the fetters of iron which gave thee 
The power of a demon—I’vb rent them apart. 

“ Ere I loved thee, base one, I knew that the fire 
That burned on thine altar was passion’s fierce 
flame; 

I swore I would quench it, I sware on my lyre, 

But thy conquest still lives in my deep blush of 
shame. 





ALFIERI. 


79 

“ It still burns on my cheek — while the tears are still 
falling, 

And torments still tear me—no ray from above 
Breaks in to dispel this gloom so appalling, 

Which broods o’er the soul of the victim of love. 

“ But these tears shall be dried — the daylight shall 


gleam. 




And who shall deride me when once I am free, 

Or tell me that virtue is only a dream 1 

Be it so—it’s the only bright dream for me.” 

; ■ i! . H ’■JlJS W 

The fierce struggle was at last 
ended and a new life opened on the 

. , J ■ • •-* 

poet. The passion, the melancholy, 


the indomitable will, even in things 

! **.. i 1 • * • " \ -* 5 a l'u ’• v/ V’Ik 


- 


wrong*, had shown that he was no 

f. • 

ordinary man. The disgust with 

;. ■ .... ’ jI • ■ ) -si ■/•' 

everything that satisfies most men, 

proved him to be worthy and capa- 

ble of better things. He seized the 

Lyre, and though its strings made 
J 7 

at first strange discords under his 


80 


ALFIER] 


fierce strokes, yet be loved the pow¬ 
er of its tone and prepared at once 
and for ever to unburden the feel¬ 
ings that had lashed him over the 
world. At this time, he was unable 
to read the Italian poets, so ignorant 
was he of the Italian language. The 
miserable patois of Piedmont had be¬ 
come changed for French, and he 
wrote his first two tragedies, II 
Fdippo and II Polenice , in French 
prose. But he immediately set a- 
bout learning his own language, and 
the better to prosecute his studies 
retired for two months to the moun¬ 
tains of Piedmont. Thus, at the age 
of twenty-six, he first commenced his 


ALFIERI. 


81 


studies. The same energy, the same 
vehemence which had characterized 
all his actions, was carried into his 
studies. Fierce and sudden both in 
his conceptions and his compositions, 
yet he was patient under criticism, 
and did not disdain to receive in¬ 
structions from the humblest. His 
failures were constant, but he arose 
from each with fresh determination. 
He was compelled first to master a 
language, and then mould it—to learn 
it, and then teach his countrymen its 
great power. The history of his tri¬ 
als, his toil, and success, is among 
the most interesting of literary biog¬ 
raphies. Thus he went on for eight 


82 


ALFIERI. 


years, gaining laurels even from his 
defeats, and showing to the world 
the inherent greatness he possessed. 

i 

• At length a third and last passion 
enslaved him for ever. At Florence, 
while prosecuting his literary pur¬ 
suits, he became acquainted with 
the Countess of Albany, the wife of 
the last Stuart that made preten¬ 
sions to the throne of England: and 
became irrevocably attached to her. 
.Not to dwell upon the moral char¬ 
acter of this liaison , we will only 
say, that her husband was a brutal 
drunkard, who had long ago destroy¬ 
ed all her affection for him, and that 
the connection between her and Al- 


ALFIERI. 


83 


fieri, like that of husband and wife, 
lasted till death. His forced separa¬ 
tion from her, till she was released 
from her husband, interrupted for 
awhile his literary pursuits, and 
brought back those strange parox¬ 
ysms of feeling that had so blasted 
his early life. 

About this time, weary with the 
restraints his own government placed 
on his actions, and resolved to be 
free at any sacrifice, he gave his 
entire property to a married sister, 
and reserving to himself a certain 
income, took up his residence in 
Florence. Prompted to this act by 
his hatred of tyranny and love of 


84 


ALFIERI. 


letters, it threw him more entirely 
upon his own genius, and his genius 
triumphed. He went on composing, 
till nineteen tragedies and six come¬ 
dies were completed, to say nothing 
of his sonnets and satires. His love 
of liberty increased with his love of 
letters, and the revolutionary senti¬ 
ments he uttered brought on him 
the displeasure of the Pope, and the 
jealous watchfulness of the petty ty¬ 
rants of Italy. But secure in the 
freer state of Tuscany, he learned to 
scorn alike the worthless criticism 
of his time, and the vengeance of 
despots. After having mastered per¬ 
fectly his own literature, and gone 



ALFIER1. 


85 


♦ 


back to the Latin classics, he at 
length, at the age of forty-seven, 
commenced the study of the Greek. 
But his frame, strengthened though 
it had been by hardship and expo¬ 
sures, could not always endure the 
exhausting demands his tempestuous 
spirit and incessant toil made upon 
it; and at the age of fifty-six, after 
a short illness, he closed his career, 
and was buried in Santa Croce, that 
receptacle of the mighty dead. Over 
his remains the Countess of Albany 
has placed a beautiful statue made 
by Canova. 

The moral character of Alfieri 

we will not discuss. It is difficult 

8 


80 


ALFIERI. 


to “judge righteous judgment ’ 7 of 
an Italian, and such an one as Al- 
fieri was. With a better education, 
and under higher influences in his 
childhood, he would have been a 
very different man. But as he was— 
guilty of many crimes—we have no 
doubt he conquered more evil pas¬ 
sions, resisted more temptation, and 
came off victor in more moral strug¬ 
gles than the majority of those who 
condemn him. A man’s moral worth 
is not to be graduated by his neg¬ 
ative virtues—the evil he merely re¬ 
frains from doing—but by the a- 
mount of temptation he overcomes. 

4 

He is not to be judged by his de- 





ALFIERI. 


87 


feats alone, but also by his victories. 
Many a man passes through life 
without a spot on his character, 
who, notwithstanding*, never strug¬ 
gled so bravely as he who fell and 
was disgraced. The latter may have 
called to his aid more principle, 
overcome more evil, before he yield¬ 
ed, than the former, either from cir¬ 
cumstances or his physical constitu¬ 
tion, was ever called to do. It 
would be as unnatural, it would re¬ 
quire as great an effort for the cold, 
phlegmatic and passionless being to 
be vehement, wild and headlong, as 
for the fiery and tempestuous man to 
be quiet and emotionless. Victory is 


68 


ALFIERI. 


nothing. It depends upon the na¬ 
ture of the conflict and the odds 
overcome. Greater generalship, cool¬ 
er bravery and loftier effort may be 
shown in one defeat than in a hun¬ 
dred victories. We have no pa¬ 
tience with those moralists of mere 
animal organization, who place the 
finest wrought spirits God ever let 
visit the earth on their iron bedstead, 
and stretch and clip according to 
the simple rule of long-measure. A 
higher and juster standard is need¬ 
ed. Such a passionate and highly 
strung nature as Alfieri’s can be 
no more understood by the dealer 
in stocks and real estate, or the dull 


ALFIERI. 


89 



plodder in the routine of his daily 
duties, than the highest paroxysm 
of the poet can be comprehended 
by his dog*. 

We wished to speak of the sep¬ 
arate works of Alfieri, but the 

length which this article has al¬ 
ready reached forbids it. We will 
only say that Italian tragedy under¬ 
went an entire revolution by his 
works. The palmy days which the 
scholar saw who lived in the 16th 
century, had passed away in the 
17th, and an effeminate literature, 
fit only for courts, had taken its 
place. Mimics of Spanish and French 

levities, amateurs and farce makers, 

8 * 


90 


ALFIERI. 


occupied the Italian stage. Goldoni 
had scourged this degenerate taste 

with his keen satire, but not kill- 

/ 

ed it. Martelli, who exchanged 
Greek and Roman verse for French 
—Maffei who succeeded him, and 
Antonio Conti, who came last, had 
all accomplished but little. The 
high and commanding power of Al- 
fieri’s genius was needed to arouse 
the degenerate Italians. The grand 
and the terrible, which entered so 
largely into his composition, swept 
away as with a tornado the whole 
race of mimics, sonnet makers and 
courtier poets. The Italians crowd¬ 
ed to the theatres, no longer to be 


ALFIERI. 


91 


pleased by fooleries, but stirred with 
lofty sentiments. Strong* and fearful 
in his conceptions, he wielded the 
soft Italian with the energy and 
force of our stern Saxon tongue. 
Stirred in his inmost heart with love 
of liberty and hatred of farces and 
mockeries, he spoke to the nation’s 
soul till it caught fire, and the petty 
despots of Italy trembled for their 
thrones. 

Darkness has again settled on It- 
aly, and the pulse that bounded in 
momentary freedom is once more 
chained up and perhaps for ever. 
Alfleri, great as he was, mistook, if 
not his own mission, at least the 


92 


ALFIERI. 


mode of accomplishing’ it. For a 
long while unconscious of the pow¬ 
er that was in him, he roamed the 
world a restless and gloomy man. 

He knew of no way to pour out the 

* 

thoughts and feelings that were con¬ 
suming him. The frenzy of love, 
the excitements of passion, all failed 
to reach the profoundest depths of 
his nature. He struck the lyre, and 
its tones were to him a voice by 
which he could give utterance to 
that within him. He had not only 
the soul of a poet but the spirit of 
a reformer. His heart was an altar 
on which burned, not only the fire 
of passion, but the purer flame of 


ALFIERI. 


93 


freedom. He scorned the effeminacy 
and slavishness of his countrymen, 
and die spoke to them like a prophet. 
But, alas! he should have known 
that the stage is not the Tribune 
from which to harangue the people. 
Not in the theatre do republican 
principles take root and flourish. Ac¬ 
tion generated there is irregular and 
fitful. He should have been the na¬ 
tions bard , and spoken to the heart 
of the people in plain, earnest lan¬ 
guage. Not through the Greek or 
Roman patriot should the accents of 
freedom have come, but from Alfi- 
eri to Alfieri’s countrymen. Then 
would he have breathed into the 


94 


ALFIERI. 


mass the breath of life, and not 
only maddened but redeemed his 
people. 

• The narrow, doubtful influence of 
the stage was not that which Alfi- 
eri should have wielded. His great 
and sincere heart should have ac¬ 
complished more. He might have 
become an oracle, and his words 
been the language of the common 
people. If the scorn of tyranny and 
the love of freedom, poured forth 
with such terrible impetuosity in the 
“ Fircmnide” alone had been spent 
in popular songs or earnest appeals 
to the people, he would have ac¬ 
complished more than in all his 


AL FIERI. 


95 


tragedies. Who cares for patriotism 
on the stage? It ceases to be truth 
there, and is all acting. The quiv¬ 
er of an earnest lip, the tear of an 
honest eye, and the fire of a stern 
and free soul, are needed to gener¬ 
ate action. The truth is, Alfieri com¬ 
menced wrong, and subsided away 
into the dramatist. He reformed 
the Italian stage, and has ever since 
occupied it—and this is about all he 
has done. 

To judge him merely as a schol¬ 
ar, he deserves the highest praise; 
but to judge him as a man and 
scholar combined, we say he did not 
do the great things the world had a 


96 


ALFIERI. 


right to expect from his great intel¬ 
lect. His style is accused of harsh¬ 
ness; and justly, if it is compared 
with the mellifluous flow of Italian 
verse; but it is the harshness of 
strong feeling. When thoughts are 
wrenched out of a man’s soul in 
the fever of excitement, they are not 
usually clothed in the most euphon¬ 
ious language. Indeed, we believe 
strong-minded, passionate men al¬ 
ways think in the Saxon form, and 

never in Italian, Latin or French. 

% 

Tacitus’ Latin is Saxon in style, 
and so is Demosthenes’ Greek and 
Bonaparte’s French. There is a di¬ 
rectness, simplicity and conciseness 


ALFIERI. 


97 


in strong* and vehement thought 
common to all nations. This very 
asperity in Alfieri pleases us. His 
words are blows, and they have 
that which is far better than eu¬ 
phony, power. Like Byron, Alfieri 
read the Bible a great deal. The 
lofty poetry of the prophet and the 
stern, magnificent style of the He¬ 
brew, harmonized with his feelings. 
Its earnestness and independence, 
nay, almost haughtiness, compared 
with his own nature. He thought * 
stronger and felt deeper than the 
rest of his countrymen, and hence 
necessarily spoke in a different lan¬ 
guage. It is always so; and the 

9 


4 


98 


ALFIERI. 


man who thus speaks and thinks is 
first condemned as an innovator, and 
then exalted as the founder of a 
new school.* 


* The materials of this sketch were drawn from the 
translation of Alfieri’s Autobiography, by C. Edwards 
Lester, Esq., and his able Essay on the Italian Drama 
and the Genius of Alfieri, prefixed to Mr. Lester’s Trans¬ 
lation. Mr. Headley omitted to mention, also, that the 
polished translation of Alfieri’s first Sonnet was done by 
Mr. Lester, who has probably devoted more attention to 
the cultivation of Italian literature than any other Ameri¬ 
can scholar. 



BEAUTY. 


“ Oh what a pure and sacred thing 
Is Beauty, curtain'd from the sight 
Of the gross world, illumining 
One only mansion with her light! 

Unseen by man’s disturbing eye— 

The flower that blooms beneath the sea, 
Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie 
Hid in more chaste obscurity. 

So, Hinda, have thy face and mind, 

Like holy mysteries, lain enshrin’d. 

And oh, what transport for a lover 
To lift the veil that shades them o’er !— 
Like those who, all at once, discover 
In the lone deep some fairy shore, 

Where mortal never trod before, 



100 


BEAUTY. 


* 


And sleep and wake in scented airs 
No lip had ever breath’d but theirs. 

N 

Beautiful are the maids that glide, 

On summer-eves, through Yemen’s dales, 
And bright*the glancing looks they hide 
Behind their litters’ roseate veils— 

And brides, as delicate and fair 

As the white jasmine flowers they wear, 

Hath Yemen in her blissful clime, 

Who,-lulled in cool kiosk or bower, 

Before their mirrors count the time, 

1 

And grow still lovelier every hour. 

But never yet hath bride or maid 
In Araby’s gay Haram smiled, 

Whose boasted brightness would not fade 
Before Al Hassan’s blooming child. 


Light as the angel shapes that bless 
An infant’s dream, yet not the less 
Rich in all woman’s loveliness— 

With eyes so pure, that from their ray 
Dark Vice would turn abashed away, 


f 


BEAUTY. 


10i 


Blinded like serpents, when they gaze 
Upon the emerald’s virgin blaze; 

Yet fill’d with all youth’s sweet desires. 

* 

Mingling the meek and vestal fires 
Of other worlds with all the bliss, 

The fond, weak tenderness of this : 

A soul, too, more than half divine, 

Where, through some shades of earthly feeling, 
Religion’s soften’d glories shine, 

Like light through summer foliage stealing, 
Shedding a glow of such mild hue, 

So warm, and yet so shadowy too, 

As makes the very darkness there 
More beautifu 1 than light elsewhere.” 

• * * * * * 


* 


102 


BEAUTY. 


BEAUTY. 

*’ One who would change the worship of all climates. 

And make a new religion where'er she comes. 

Unite the differing faiths of all the world, 

To idolize her face.” 

“ Ha, my fair priestess! thou, whose smile 
Hath inspiration in its rosy beam 
Beyond the Enthusiast’s hope or Prophet’s dream; 
Light of the Faith! who twin’st religion’s zeal 
So close with love’s, men know not which they feel, 
Nor which to sigh for, in their trance of heart, 

The heav’n thou preachest or the heav’n thou art! 
What should I be without thee 7 without thee 
How dull were power, how joyless victory ! 

Though borne by angels, if that smile of thine 
Bless’d not my banner, ’twere but half divine. 

But—why so mournful, child 7 those eyes, that shone 
All life last night—what!—is their glory gone 7 
Come, come—this morn’s fatigue hath made them pale, 
They want rekindling—suns themselves would fail 
Did not their comets bring, as I to thee, 

From light’s own fount supplies of brilliancy. 


V 


BEAUTY. X03 

- Thou seest this cup—no juice of earth is here, 

But the pure waters of that upper sphere, 

Whose rills o’er ruby beds and topaz flow, 

Catching the gem’s bright color, as they go. 

Nightly my Genii come and fill these urns— 

Nay, drink—in every drop Jife’s essence burns; 

’Twill make that soul all fire, those eyes all light— 
Come, come, I want thy loveliest smiles to-night: 
There is a youth—why start?—thou sawest him then; 
Look’d he not boldly ? such the godlike men 
Thou’lt have to woo thee in the bowers above— 
Though he, I fear, hath thoughts too stern for love, 

Too rul’d by that cold enemy of bliss 

The world calls virtue—we must conquer this ; 

I 

Nay, shrink not, pretty sage ! ’tis not for thee 
To scan the mazes of Heav’n’s mystery: 

The steel must pass through fire, ere it can yield 

Fit instruments for mighty hands to wield. 

\ 

This very night I mean to try the art 
Of powerful beauty on that warrior’s heart. 

All that my Haram boasts of bloom and wit, 

Of skill and charms, most rare and exquisite, 


104 


BEAUTY. 


Shall tempt the boy—young Mirzala’s blue eyes, 
Whose sleepy lid like snow on violets lies: 

Arouya’s cheeks, warm as a spring-day "sun, 

And lips that, like the seal of Solomon, 

Have magic in their pressure; Zeba’s lute, 

And Lilla’s dancing feet, that gleam and shoot 
Rapid and white as sea-birds o’er the deep— 

All shall combine their witching powers to steep 
My convert’s spirit in that softening trance, 

From which to heav’n is but the next advance— 

That glowing, yielding fusion of the breast, 

On which Religion stamps her image best. 

, But hear me, Priestess !—though each nymph of these 
Hath some peculiar, practis’d power to please, 

Some glance or step which, at the mirror tried, 

First charms herself, then all the world beside; 

There still wants one, to make the victory sure, 

One who in every look joins every lure; 

Through whom all beauty’s beams concenter’d pass, 
Dazzling and warm, as through love’s burning glass; 
Whose gentle lips persuade without a word, 

Whose words, e’en when unmeaning, are ador’d, 



X 




BEAUTY. 105 

Like inarticulate breathings from a shrine, 

Which our faith takes for granted are divine ! 

Such is the nymph we want, all warmth and light, 

To crown the rich temptations of to-night: 

Such the refin’d enchantress that must be 
This hero’s vanquisher—and thou art she!” 
****** 






106 


BEAUTY. 


BEAUTY. 

V . 

“She was a form of life and light, 

That, seen, became a part of sight; 

And rose, where’er I turn’d mine eye, 

The morning star of memory.” 
****** 

“ Such was Zuleika ! such around her shone 
The nameless charms unmarked by her alone: 

The light of love, the purity of grace, 

The mind, the music breathing from her face, 

The heart whose softness harmonized the whole— 
And, oh ! that eye was in itself a soul!” 
****** 

“ Lo ! when the buds expand the leaves are green, 
Then the first opening of the flower is seen; 

Then come the honied breath and rosy smile, 

That with their sweets the willing sense beguile: 
But as we look, and love, and taste, and praise, 
And the fruit grows, the charming flower decays; 
Till all is gathered, and the wintry blast 
Moans o’er the place of love and pleasure past. 


BEAUTY. 


107 


So ’tis with beauty—such the opening grace 

And dawn of glory in the youthful face; 

Then are the charms unfolded to the sight, 

% 

Then all is loveliness and all delight; 

The nuptial tie succeeds, and genial hour. 

And, lo ! the falling off of beauty’s flower. 

So through all nature is the progress made— 

The bud, the bloom, the fruit—and then we fade.” 
******* 

“As rising on its purple wing 
The insect queen of eastern spring, 

O’er emerald meadows of Kashmere, 

Invites the young pursuer near. 

And leads him on from flower to flower, 

A weary chase and wasted hour, 

Then leaves him, as it soars on high, 

With panting heart and tearful eye; 

So beauty lures the full-grown child 
With hue as bright and wing as wild; 

A chase of idle hopes and fears, 

Begun in folly, closed in tears,” 




v 


SB©©E®9 

BY THE 

REV. J. T. HEADLEY. 

PUBLISHED BY JOHN S. TAYLOR, 

143 Nassau Street, New York;. 


THE SACRED MOUNTAINS. 

1 Vol. 12mo. Illustrated.$1.00 

SACRED SCENES AND CHARACTERS. 

1 Vol. 12mo.1.00 

RAMBLES AND SKETCHES. 

1 Vol. 12mo. Illustrated . 1.00 

LUTHER AND CROMWELL. 

1 Vol. 12mo. Illustrated. . 1.00 

NAPOLEON AND HIS DISTINGUISHED 

MARSHALS. 1 Vol. 12mo. Illustrated. . . 1.00 

LETTERS FROM THE BACKWOODS AND 

THE ADIRONDACK. 1 Vol. 12mo. . . . 1.00 

LETTERS FROM ITALY, THE ALPS, AND 

THE RHINE. 1 Vol. 12mo. . . . . .1.00 

HEADLEY’S MISCELLANEOUS WORKS, 

containing Washington and Distinguished Cotempo¬ 
rary Chai'acters. 1 Vol. 12mo. . . . . . 1.00 











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®4®4®4®4®4@4®404@4®4®4®4®4®4@4 ffl 
4 ® 4 0 4 0 4 0 4 ® 4 0 4 0 4 0 4 0 4 0 4 0 4 ® 4 0 4 ffl , 4 0 4 
0404040404® 414 0 4040404040404040 
4 0 4 0 4 1 4 0 4 0 4 0 4 0 4 0 4 0 4 0 4 0 4 0 4 0 4 0 4 ffl 4 

0 4 ® 4 0 4 0 4 0 4 0 4 0 4 ® 4 0 4 0 4 0 4 ® 4 0 4 0 4 0 4 @i 

4 ® 4 ® 4 0 4 ® 4 ® 4 0 4 ® 4 1 4 i 4 0 4 ® 4 0 4 ® 4 0 4 ® 4 

0 4 ® 4 0 4 ® 4 0 4 0 4 8 4 i 4 0 4 0 4 I 4 0 4 0 4 0 4 ffl 4 0 

4 ffl 4 ffl 4 04040404040404 8 4 0 4 0 4 0 4® 4 'ffl 4 
0 4 0 4 ® 4 ffl 4 8 4 0 4 0 4 8 4 i 4 0 4 ® 4 8 4 i 4 ® 4 0 4 0 

4 0 4 0 4 8 4 0 4 0 4 8 4 8 4 0 4 0 4 8 4 0 4 0 4 ffl 4 ffl 4 0 4 

g 4 0 4 8 4 0 4 8 4 ffl 4 0 4 0 4 i 4 8 4 0 4 8 4 8 4 0 4 0 4 8 

4 0 4 8 4 ® 4 8 4 0 4 8 4 0 4 0 4 8 4 8 4 8 4 0 4 0 4 ® 4 0 4 

8 4 ffl 4 8 4 0 4 ffl 4 1 4 i 4 0 4 i 4 1 4 0 41 4 ! 4 ffl 4 0 4 0 
4141404141404140414140484840484 
8 4 8 4 0 4 8 4 8 4 ® 4 ® 4 0 4 0 4 0 4 8 4 8 4 0 4 8 4 8 4 0 

4 0 4 8 4 8 4 8 4 8 4 0 4 0 4 8 4 @S 4 ® 4 0 4 ffl 4 8 4 0 4 8 4 

4 0 4 0 4 0 4 8 4 ® 4 0 4 0 4 0 4 0 4 8 4 8 4 0 4 8 4 8 4 8 


40 4 04040404040404040^040 4 848 4 8 4 


8 4 0 4 8i 4 0 4 0 4 ® 4 ® 4 8 4 ® 4 8 4 ® 4 ffl 4 0 4 8 4 8 4 @ 
4 0 4 0 4 1 4 ffl 4 S 4 0 4 8 41 4 0 4 ffl <* 0 4 8 4 0 4 8 4 0 4 
8 4 8 <*040404040404048404048 4 0 4 8 4 0 
4 8 4®4@404®48<>0<>040 4®^048 4* 8 4 8 4 8 4 
«] 4 8 4040404040404040 4 8 4 0 4 8 4 0 4 0 4 K 


4 04040404040404 ® 4 0 4 ffl 484 0 





IBRARY O 














